Love Is Capible of Being Terrible
by Grantaire agogandagast
Summary: If Grantaire was a woman this is what would have happened: She would have fallen in love with Enjolras, he may or may not have secretly loved her in return, and this love would have been capable of being terrible. ( I don't think that I'm going to finish this story. If anyone wants me to continue it, please, notify me, because otherwise... yeah.)
1. Enjolras

Chapter I: Enjolras

"What?!"

"That's right, give it here."

"But how did you... How did she..."

"Ten francs, Joly. Hand it over."

He stared at the table between us, a look of utter confusion, shock, and disbelief on his face. Then, at last, he let out an angry groan and turned over ten francs as we had agreed upon. "Thank you," I said, grinning as I took the money from his hand and slipping it into my pocket.

Joly glared at me jealously and unhappily. "You realize that all ten of those francs will be gone by tomorrow. You will have wasted _my _money on useless things, purchasing alcohol, and drinking yourself senseless! What a waste!"

I only shrugged and rolled my eyes, as I shuffled the cards in my hands. "You're just mad, because I beat you."

Joly did not deny it.

Courfeyrac and Bahorel, who were sitting at the table and watching the game, grinned and laughed. "It is quite shameful, Joly," Courfeyrac said with a playful smirk, "that you let a girl beat you every time you gamble with her."

Joly's face twisted as he became even angrier and more embarrassed. The rest of us laughed. Pretending that he had not heard this comment, Joly turned abruptly back to me and persisted, "You need to stop drinking, Grantaire! It is not healthy! It could kill you."

"Says the man who wants to have a revolution against the entire army. Yet, drinking could kill _me._ Good one, Joly."

"I'm serious, Grantaire! It is not good for anyone, especially not a woman! It can cause serious problems! Damage to the liver! Damage to the ovaries! Inability to have children! Heart failure! Death! It could ruin your life, Grantaire!"

"I'll keep that in mind," I muttered as I finished shuffling the deck, making it obvious to them all that I could not have cared less about what Joly had to say. I looked up and met his eyes with a mischievous smirk. "Play again?"

"No, I do not want to."

"Because you know that I'll beat you, again."

"You will not! You had a lucky hand, that is all!"

"Luck had nothing to do with it, Joly," Courfeyrac joined in teasingly. "She beats you every time."

Joly turned his eyes to glare darkly at Courfeyrac. "Why don't you play her then?!"

He laughed. "Alright, I will! Grantaire, deal me five cards! I'm in!"

I grinned as I dealt him into the next round. "Fair enough. I will just have to beat you both. Bahorel, are you in?"

"Of course, I am!"

"Good, good. Very good. We each put in ten francs, and the winner gets it all. That's forty francs total, thirty francs gained." I raised my bottle to my lips and took another long drink.

"Forty francs for you to waste on alcohol!" Joly grumbled under his breath, and the rest of us laughed or roll our eyes at him. I did the later.

By the end of the round, Joly and Courfeyrac had already lost, and only Bahorel and I were left. Bahorel was always a good match. Just not good enough. I beat him, claimed the forty francs, bought a third bottle of liquor, and Joly began to rant again about the dangers of alcohol and the waste of money.

"Joly, leave me alone," I finally said in annoyance, as I raised a bottle to my lips. "It's bad enough when I have Enjolras constantly yelling at me to put the bottle down."

"Leave her alone, Joly," Bahorel supported me. But then he grinned and added, "But Grantaire, I will not deny that you must have a hole in your stomach! You drink more than any of the fully grown men, twice your size, age, and strength, that I know!"

"Come on," said Courfeyrac. "Let's play again."

This was the way of it. I was a part of the Friends of the ABC. Here I was, a woman outplaying, out-gambling, out-drinking all of these men. But I was not like other women. A cynic, a skeptic, a rouge, a rover, a drunkard, a gambler, a libertine, and a woman. I dressed in men's clothing, because I hated having to be prober and wear dresses, because if I had money I did not spend it on fashion but on liquor, and because I did not care enough about myself to try at anything. Society despised me and scorned me, but these boys accepted me in. They accepted me as part of the group, and they treated me no differently than they treated each other. Sometimes Bossuet or Courfeyrac would try to flirt with me, and sometimes I would flirt in return with them, even though we all knew that I did not love them and they did not love me. Any affaire we might have had would have been for our own pleasure and not for love, just as it was with all of the men that I had ever been with. Even still, most of them saw me just as another one of the boys. It was better this way. Easier. They all accepted me, and I was happy. All of them, that is, except for Enjolras.

"A—B—C!" a loud, high, clear voice rang out through the cafe, and at once, all of us students turned our heads. All of us who called ourselves the Friends of the ABC. It was Enjolras who had called us. Enjolras was our leader. He was everything that a leader needed to be, young, handsome, strong, brave, passionate, powerful, inspiring, and ready to die for what he believed in. He was a perfect leader. With his clear blue eyes, the color of the sky before sunset; long, flowing, curls of blonde hair that blew in the wind and glowed in the sun, illuminating like a hallow; fair skin, white, smooth, and flawless, like marble; pure lips, slightly red, that had not kissed any being of this earth; the body of a god, the captivating stature of Apollo; the gate of a king; and a stern, serious, handsome, soldierly, and angelic face, he was a perfect relic of beauty. In his eyes, one could see the thoughtful reflection of his mind and the burning fire of his soul. His speech was like that of a song, a hymn, and whenever someone heard his voice, it was nearly impossible not to stop and listen. In times of quiet, Enjolras was a king. In times of song, when he gave a speech, or rallied the people, or talked of the Revolution, justice, and freedom, he was an angel. He spread his wings and soared through the Heavens, astonishing, amazing, and making awestricken all who listened to him. When I saw him and looked upon all of his beauty, his splendor, his glory, I felt that I was looking upon the face if an angel.

For a nonbeliever, a wretch, and a sinner like me, Enjolras was the closest thing to a glimpse of Heaven that I knew. When I looked upon him, when the glory of his light fell upon my dark face, and when I followed him, I was filled with a deep joy, admiration, respect, and love that I had never felt for anyone else. I ran with many men, but there was only one man that I would have ever stopped to stay with, to settle down with, to be with forever. There was only one man that I really loved. But unfortunately for me, this was one man that I could never have. This man was Enjolras.

At the sound of his voice crying out "A—B—C!" I stopped playing in the middle of the game, stopped drinking in the middle of a sip, and turned my head to look for him. He was standing across the room before the table in the corner, a great map of Paris opened in the table before him. Combeferre was already standing by his side. Enjolras stood tall and proud, his head held high, his eyes blazing like the sun. When my eyes fell upon him, I felt a vague, yet exceedingly deep longing, yearning in my heart. The first time I laid my eyes upon him, I felt this even stronger. After all of these years, the feeling had faded, because I knew that it was hopeless, that I could never have Enjolras. But it would never go away. I needed Enjolras. Even if he would never love me in return, I loved him. I needed him.

"A—B—C" to all others in this room was only reciting the first three letters of the alphabet, but to the Friends of the ABC, it was a code that said, "Now it was the time. It is time to talk about Revolution. It is time to overthrow injustice and pursue freedom."

At once, without even glancing at Bossuet, Courfeyrac, or Joly but keeping my eyes fixed on Enjolras, I rose out of my chair, went across the room, and gathered with the rest of the boys around the table where Enjolras stood. Enjolras was our chief. Combeferre was the guide, Enjolras's best friend, his advisor, his councilor, and his right-hand-man. Courfeyrac was the center, the center of our friendships and he held us all together. Marius was a newer member of the group, as he had only been with us for two years, but nonetheless, he was very close to Enjolras, and in Enjolras's eyes second only to Combeferre. Feuilly was a working man with a passion for liberty, much like Enjolras, but he was a follower and Enjolras was the leader. Joly, Bahorel, and Jehan were faithful followers to Enjolras and to freedom, and he respected them each. But Grantaire. Grantaire was a bother, a pain, and a doubter than Enjolras only wished would go away. Enjolras despised Grantaire. Enjolras despised me.

"Today is the fifth of April," he informed us, but most of us already knew that. "The time is growing nearer. Soon, we will have to take action." Then he went on with a long list of updates on the status of Paris and of reasons why we had to rebel soon. "We will rebel," he said at the end, passion burning in his voice, "and we will set the people free."

"We will rebel, and we will all be killed."

He turned abruptly to glare at me with dark, hateful eyes. "Silence, drunkard!" he snapped in fury. "Why are you even here? It is not as if you are going to be fighting with us."

I laughed bitterly. "Of course, I won't be, Enjolras," I said, taking a long swig form my bottle. "There is really no reason for me to be here."

"Then why are you here?" he growled impatiently.

I shrugged and held up my bottle. "For the drinks."

Enjolras scoffed in disgust and turned his back to me. "Grantaire, you are impossible. You a disgrace. You are a disgrace to France, to the Friends of the ABC, and to all of us." With that he turned his back to me and stormed away, leaving us all behind. This was a typical conversation between Enjolras and me.

I sighed, my heart sinking in hopelessness, and I took a long drink from my bottle. "Enjolras despised me," I muttered under my breath.

"He does not mean what he says, Grantaire," Combeferre, who must have noticed how hurt I was, said gently.

But I, a cynic and a hopeless fool, only shook my head. "Yes, he does. And he's right."

Jehan sat down in the chair beside me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "Sweetheart, listen to me," he said gently, in his shy delicate voice. I raised my eyes to meet his, hardly able to take the poet seriously. He was the only person on the face of this earth that called me "sweetheart." "I have known Enjolras for a long time. I know that he is very strong, and fearless, almost heartless at times. I know that he is very cruel to you. But he does not mean any of it. He is harsh to you, because he is afraid of you."

I frowned at Jehan, not at all comforted by these words. "He's afraid of me? Great. That makes me feel great."

"No, no, no, no," Jehan cried, burying his face in his hand. "That is not what I mean. But yes, he is harsh to you, but only to hide is fear."

"His fear of what? Enjolras is not afraid of anything."

"Yes, he is," Jehan protested. "He is not afraid of pain, of battle, of death—"

"What more is there?"

"I will tell you!" His voice softened almost comically, and he said, "Enjolras is afraid of love." I frowned, not understanding. Jehan must have noticed, because he went on to explain, "Enjolras has never loved anybody, and the whole idea of love frightened him. That is why he is harsh to you, because he is afraid. He is afraid, because he loves you."


	2. Capable of Being Terrible

Chapter 2: Capable of Being Terrible

I waited until all of the others had left the room, but I remained in my chair in the corner, clutching my bottle tightly in my hand. When the others had left, I remained in one corner of the room, and in the other, oblivious of my presence, remained Enjolras. There was no one else in this room. We were alone. I drew in a deep breath, got to my feet, and slowly approached him. His eyes were fixed intently on the map that was spread across the table before him, and he did not see me until I spoke his name. "Enjolras?"

He looked up. When he saw me standing before him, the bottle still in my hand, his face darkened and he frowned. "Grantaire?"

_Say it,_ I told myself. _Just say it. _I had already made up my mind. For better or for worse, I was going to say it. I was terrified. I swallowed down the knot in my throat, and forced myself to say what I had come to say. "I love you."

Enjolras froze. Every muscle in his body froze, he seemed to stop breathing, and his face became a shade paler. For a moment, he was terrified, too. Then, a moment later, the fear seemed to pass him, and his face again became dark and scornful. But he could not hide that he was still very uncomfortable. "You love every man you see, Grantaire."

"No, I don't," I immediately protested. "I run with them, yes, but I do not love them."

"You use them," Enjolras corrected me.

I shrugged. "Sure. I use them. But not you. You are different. I love you. That is the only reason that I stay here. I do not believe in anything, but I believe in you. I love you. I have always loved you. I always will love you."

Enjolras stared at me a moment, unsure what to stay. Then, at last, he scolded and turned away. "I do not have time for this, Grantaire—"

"Do you love me?" I interrupted him.

He froze, turned back to me, and his face went a shade paler. "W… What?" he stuttered, taking a small step backward, as if I had pronounced a brutal threat to attack him.

"Do you love me?" I repeated.

"I… I love France."

"I know you do, but do you also love me?"

"Grantaire, I love France! And Patria! And Freedom! I love… I do not love you."

I sighed, my heart sinking in despair, and I dropped my eyes to the floor. "That is what I thought." But even as I said this, I did not lose all hope. A person like me, a gambler, a cheater, and a liar, I was rather good at picking out a bluff. I thought Enjolras was bluffing. And liker Jehan said, I could see that he was afraid. "I just want you to know," I added, "that it love you. I really, really love you…" I glanced up at him, allowing my heart to be filled with hope, "I would do anything for you."

Enjolras looked completely shocked, confused, and lost of what to do. He was staring at me as if I had threatened his life and was about to kill him. Jehan was right. Enjolras was afraid of something.

I risked taking a step closer to him, and I noticed him shifting uncomfortably and taking a small step backward, as the space between our bodies shrunk. I looked into his eyes, and he had no choice but to look back into mine. "Enjolras?" I said quietly. After a moment, he managed to make some noise in response. "I love you," I said again, and I could see what little blood was left in his face draining out of it. "Jehan told me that he thinks you love me, also… Do you?"

Enjolras stared at me a moment, as if he had not understood what he had been asked. Then, at last, he managed to swallow. He opened his lips, and tried to speak. "Why did he tell you that?" he finally managed to ask in a raspy whisper.

"I don't know," I answered with a shrug. "He said that the reason that you hate me so much is because you're afraid to love me."

Enjolras's face changed in surprise and became softer. "I do not hate you," he finally said after a long moment of silence.

I snorted as if this was the most ridiculous thing that I had ever heard. "Really, Enjolras? You say that you do not have me? And you expect me to believe that? After the way that you treat me?"

"I…" Enjolras fell silent, and he seemed to be taking in my words. He knew that I was right. He knew that he treated me terrible. Verbally, mentally, emotionally, he abused me. He acted as if he despised me. As far as I was concerned, he did despise me. Yet, now, it seemed, that Enjolras was saying differently. He opened his mouth to speak again. I do not know what I expected him to say. But not this. Not what those words that he spoke to me when we were alone in the Musain Café. "Grantaire, I am sorry," he said softly. "I never meant to… I did not mean to… I did not mean… I am sorry."

I looked up to meet his eyes, my heart fluttering with hope and with joy. Even if Enjolras did not love me, he did not hate me. Perhaps, he even accepted me. This was more than I could have ever hoped for. "That's alright, Enjolras," I said with a soft smile, having forgiven him long before he ever apologized. "Besides, the things that you say are true. I cannot be angry with you for being truthful."

But Enjolras sighed, dropped his gaze away from me, and shook his head. "No. That is not the truth. I do not mean the things that I say…"

A moment passed in silence before I took a small step forward, moving closer to Enjolras, and asked in a soft voice, "Then why do you say them?"

"Because…" Enjolras looked up to meet my eyes. "I do not know…" I took another step toward him, and he shifted uncomfortably as our bodies became within a short arm's reach of one anther. "Maybe, because…" he said softly, speaking as if a confession to his own conscience. "Maybe, because… Because I am afraid…"

I grinned, our faces now only a very short distance apart. "I didn't think that you were afraid of anything," I told him.

He gazed at me, his face stern and serious, as it always was, but now it was also softer. Then in a soft voice he whispered, "Every man is afraid of something."

I smiled and let out a playful laugh. "Enjolras the leader of the Revolution is not afraid of pain, or guns, or battle, or blood, or death, but he is afraid of love."

After I said this, I wished that I had not, because I thought that it would push Enjolras away. I expected him to roll his eyes at me, glare at me, and turn away, just as he always had whenever I had joked or mocked him in anyway. So I was shocked when, after a few seconds, a small smile came over his beautiful lips. When he smiled at me, when Enjolras was smiling at me for the first time in my entire life, when we looked into each other's eyes, and I smiled back at him, I could not describe the joy that burst within my heart.

A moment later, his smile faded, he dropped his eyes away from me, and he took a small step backward. His voice becoming soft, and serious, and cold again, he shook his head and whispered, "I have never loved anyone… I cannot love. It is not a part of me. Grantaire, I am sorry, but you must understand." He slowly raised his eyes look into mine, again. "I cannot love you. I love France. This is my calling. I was born to serve France. I cannot serve France and Love…"

"Why not?" I asked frowning at him, unable to understand him.

"Because…" Enjolras said quietly. "Love is… Love is capable of being terrible."

"Really?" I said skeptically, resisting the urge to mock this. "How so?"

"Because," he said, somewhat defensively. "It can betray you. Think of it, Grantaire. Love can bring a man happiness, but also despair. Love can make a man, but even quicker it can destroy him. It can bring a man life, but even more often it will bring him death. A man falls in love, and she leaves him for a different man, or she cheats him, or she lies to him, or she does not really love him, or she dies. He loses her, and a man is left with nothing save for a broken heart and a shattered life." He frowned at me and added, "Just as you always do to the men that you _run with_."

I felt a blade on pain in my heart and it began to throb, because I knew that even if Enjolras did not mean all of the things that he said, he did mean some of it. He hated drinking, gambling, an unruly woman, and her disloyalty to all but one man. My voice became soft and sad, and I whispered, "I would not do that to you, Enjolras… I would never leave you… I love you."

Enjolras shook his head. "I am sorry, Grantaire, but I love France. A man cannot serve to masters."

"That's from the Bible, isn't it?" I chuckled bitterly under my breath. "I'm not religious. I do not believe in God."

At these words, Enjolras frowned, and I could see a shadow of the scorn that he would so often show me returning to his eyes. "You do not believe in anything."

"I believe in you."

For the second time in my life, a small curve appeared at the corner of Enjolras's lips, and he smiled at me again. After a moment, I smiled back at him, and I took a step closer. His body stiffened, but he did not recoil. Now, we stood together, alone, before the window of the Musain Café. Outside, the sun was setting over Paris, the sky was painted orange, a warm pink glow fell through the window and illuminated our faces, and as the light shown through Enjolras's beautiful hair, it glowed gold around his head like the crown of a king, or like the hallow of an angel. Now, our faces became so close that there was hardly any space separating them.

"I believe in you," I repeated, but this time in a whisper. This time, the words did not emit from my mouth, but from my heart. For the first time in my life, I was really free to tell Enjolras, the man whom I loved, how I felt about him, without having to hide or having to fear how he, or how anyone, would respond. Then, I gently raised a hand to his face and cupped his flawless cheek in my palm. I slowly pulled him toward me, also moving toward him, and I kissed him upon his precious, pure lips. This was the first time that Enjolras had even been kissed by a woman, or by anybody. A day ago, I would not have dared it, but now, I, a wretch and a fool, had kissed the lips of an angel.

As I kissed him, I could feel Enjolras's body stiffen, every muscle tense, he clinched his jaws uncomfortably, and he slightly pulled away. I completed the kiss. It was a simple kiss, soft and gentle. It was not intense or violent like all of the kisses that I had shared with other men. I did not need to kiss Enjolras like this. I did not want to kiss him like this. I loved him. And a soft kiss to tell him "I love you" was enough.

When our lips parted, I opened my eyes, and I found myself looking strait into Enjolras's. For a moment, he only stared at me, shocked, confused, and startled, as if he did not understand what had happened. But only a moment later, I leaned in and gently, our lips hardly meeting for a full second this time, kiss him again. I was about to withdraw from him, when a felt a hand, soft, gentle, and reluctant, touch my cheek. A moment later, nervously and fearfully but nonetheless, Enjolras kissed me back.

In the window of the Musain Café, in the light of the setting sun, only back figures to the eyes of the world of the streets below, the leader Enjolras and the drunkard Grantaire stared a kiss, finally free, if only for the moment. Free not to hide, free to be together, free to love. If only for this moment.


	3. One Night

Chapter 3: One Night

One Night. Enjolras had made that clear. We had only one night to be together, and when morning came, he would love France, again. A man can not serve two masters. Enjolras loved me, but he loved France first. He loved France more. He was loyal to her, not to me. But tonight, we would be together. Just for one night, he would love me and I would love him. Openly and freely, we would love each other. We had one night to be together. One night to dream. But tomorrow, we would have to wake up from our fantasy and live in the real world again.

We stayed in the café, me clinging to Enjolras, and he allowing me to do so, and we had watched the sun set over Paris. It was beautiful. The sunset was beautiful, the sky was beautiful, the city was beautiful, Paris was beautiful, and Enjolras was beautiful. This one night was the best time of my entire life. This one night with Enjolras, I would not have traded for a thousand more years alone. I was not a Christian and I did not know Heaven. But this one night, my heart was so full of happiness, of joy, and of love, that I found myself thinking, _"If there is such a place a Paradise, I think it must be a little like this."_

We had spent all evening together, walking through Paris, through the streets, the gardens, and the trees, under the starry and moonlit sky. I held Enjolras's hand, and he did not pull away from me. I did not let go. I spent the entire time talking, smiling, laughing, joking, and proclaiming my undying love, admiration, faith, and hope in Enjolras. Sometimes, he would smile back at me. At last, when it became too late and too dark, I persuaded Enjolras to come home with me, because I could not bear to say goodbye to him so soon.

Now, I was slouching, already half undressed, propped up on my elbows, in my bed, still clinging tightly to Enjolras's hand with one of mine, and he was standing beside the bed, still fully clothed, standing still and stiff, much the way that he had before I had kissed him, and he was looking down at me with a doubtful, reluctant, uncomfortable, and a vaguely afraid expression on his face.

"I do not know, Grantaire," he said softly. "I do not know if this is a good idea."

I let out a soft laughed, blinded by joy and intoxicated by love. "Why not?"

I could see him nervously swallowing a lump down his throat. "Perhaps… Perhaps, we should just wait a little longer…"

I laughed again, still smiling at him. "What are we waiting for? You said yourself that we only have one night together. Tomorrow, I will be gone."

"But…" He dropped his eyes away from me and looked upon the ground.

"But what?"

Still not looking up at me, he opened his lips, and in a very soft, almost humiliated voice, he said, "God tells us to wait until marriage."

I rolled my eyes and waved a hand at this excuse. "I do not believe in God," I said again, which I could tell angered Enjolras, so trying to be more understanding and more sensitive to his beliefs, I went on, "We obviously are not going to get married, Enjolras. After tomorrow, we will probably never be alone together again, and after a few months, we will all be dead." Maybe, this was not the right thing to say either, because Enjolras believed so strongly in the Revolution, and here I was telling him that it was going to fail and leave us all dead. Trying for a final time, I said, "God will forgive you this time, Enjolras. You are a great man. God is not going to punish someone like you when there are people in this world like me."

Enjolras frowned at me and remained silent for a long moment, not speaking, not answering, not moving, not smiling. Then at last, he opened his mouth and said, "That is not my only concern. There are too many things that could happen. What if I hurt you?"

This time, I could not help but laugh, playfully and jeeringly. "Believe me, Enjolras," I said still chuckling, "you will not hurt me. And nothing will go wrong." I smirked, my wild side getting the best of me, and I added in mockery, "I'll have to be the one to be careful not to hurt you."

He did not laugh. In fact, I could see that this comment, while my intent was only to reassure him and make him smile, had greatly offended him and embarrassed him. I quickly stopped laughing. "I'm just kidding, Enjolras," I said. "I wasn't serious."

His he still frowned at me, his face unchanged, and he not amused. At last, he drew in a steady breath and asked, "What if you become pregnant?"

I almost laughed again, but this time I was able to pull of a smile instead. "I cannot become pregnant, Enjolras," I told him gently, trying to sound reassuring. "I drink too much."

He scolded at the mention of drinking. "I have always warned you to put the bottle down."

I shrugged. "Yes, but you don't know what it's like to be addicted to something." I smirked again. "Trust me, Enjolras, you do not have to worry about creating a baby. If I were capable of getting pregnant I would have had one a long time ago."

He scolded again, obviously displeased with my behavior. Again. He still did not oblige. After a long moment of nothing, he said again in a flat voice, "I do not know, Grantaire."

I sighed and stopped smiling and laughing. "Alright, Enjolras," I said. "I know that you're religious, and you're a virgin, and you're an honorable man. If you do not want to do it, then you don't have to. It's your choice. If you don't want to, then I don't care. I will be just as happy, or happier, if you will only lie down in bed beside me and let me put my head on your chest so that I can hear your heart beating."

When I said this, I saw a faint shadow of relief come over his face, but as quickly as it had come, it had gone. Now, I was not urging him to do anything. Now, I was not pressuring him into making any one decision. But now was too late. The damage had already been done. I had already insulted Enjolras, his pride, his religion, his beliefs, his dignity, and his power. By laughing, and smirking, and joking, and behaving as if I were above him, I had made him feel embarrassed, and weak, and incapable. Enjolras was a very proud man. He would not allow himself to be humiliated. So brushing aside my offer, he climbed into the bed over top of me and did it.

In only this one night, I had taken so much from Enjolras. His Patria, his pride, his innocence, and his purity. At the time, I was too entranced and intoxicated by my love for him to even notice this. It never crossed my mind. It was a long time later that it occurred to me, and I wondered how Enjolras felt during this night. Thinking back and reflecting upon it, I was sure that he had been thinking these things and that he did not want to do the things that he had done. Perhaps, in his human nature, as the nature of humans is sinful, lustful, savage, and despicable, he wanted to do the things that he did, he, young, pure, and innocent, wanted a taste of the sweetness of sinfulness. But I knew that in his soul, as the soul is not the same as the human's nature but it is the heart of the man, himself, the part of the man that is living and that is the judge of his actions, Enjolras did not want to do the sins that he had committed on that night. But sin had worked through me, and I had, unknowingly, deceived him.

I was not like Enjolras. I was sinful, wicked, and foolish, ignoring my conciseness if I had one at all. But Enjolras, while perhaps he had made a mistake, for my sake, was pure. He was good, and virtuous, and righteous at heart. He was a good man. An innocent man. An innocent boy. But I had corrupted him.

Love is capable of being terrible. Enjolras was right.

Satan offers man the cup of sin, and its taste is sweet, delightful, and pleasureful. It takes a strong man to reject the Devil's cup. I was not strong, and I took his cup willingly. I deserved what was soon to follow this one night of happiness, of love, of blindness, of lust, and of sweet sinfulness. It was penalty that was just for me to pay. It was just for me to pay for my own sins. But not Enjolras. Enjolras did not deserve what he got. He did not deserve to pay the price for what I had done. The fault lied with me. The fault was mine, alone. Enjolras was the innocent soul of righteousness who had been wrongly ensnared by the trap of evil.


	4. He Loved France More

Chapter 4: He Loved France More

"Grantaire, how much did you drink last night!?" Bahorel cried out in laughter and in amusement.

"I don't know…" I mumbled miserably. "I don't think it was more than usual…" I had hardly finished saying these words, when I leaned forward over the bucket to vomit again. I felt terrible. My body was weak and shaky, my head aching, my mind lightheaded, my chest tight, my throat burning as my stomach was emptied of all of the alcohol that I had drunk last light.

Bahorel and Bossuet laughed and I could hear Courfeyrac struggling not to snicker, as well. "The facts say otherwise," Joly said as he watched me heaving into the bucket.

"I don't think I drank more than usual…" I said in a soft, shaky, and strained voice.

"Then, I suppose that you are having very bad luck, indeed!" Bossuet said with a smirk and a laugh.

"Are you sure that, Grantaire?" Courfeyrac asked.

"No… I was drunk when I was drinking last night: I have no idea."

Bahorel, Bossuet, and Courfeyrac chuckled again.

"Quite, all of you!" Jehan suddenly snapped. He and Courfeyrac, the more compassionate boys in this fellowship, were kneeling down beside me, gently stroking my shoulders, as to try to comfort me and make me feel better. But even so, Courfeyrac was struggling to resist the urge to laugh and make humor of this. Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, and Feuilly were standing not far away before me, Bahorel and Bossuet joking and laughing, Joly frowning and taking all of this very seriously, and Feuilly watching with silent concern. "This is not funny!" Jehan went on. "Grantaire is sick!"

"It's only a hangover—" I began to say, but I was cut off as I threw up again.

When it finally stopped coming up, I slowly lifted my face away from the bucket, and raised my eyes, to find myself staring at the frowning face of Joly. "I warned you about alcohol, Grantaire," he said flatly. "It is not good for you. Look what it is doing to you! This is your fourth hangover this week! You need to stop drinking."

"Leave me alone," I grumbled, wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my shirt. "I couldn't stop drinking if I tried."

Several minutes later and I still had not thrown up again, I began to hope that this was the end of it. Jehan, Feuilly, and Joly looked relived, but Bahorel and Bossuet were still laughing, and Courfeyrac was still smiling. I was still sitting in my chair, clutching the bucket in my lap, when three other men entered the room. Marius, Combeferre, and Enjolras. As they walked, they were huddled in a tight trio whispering in low voices, no doubt discussing the Revolution. When they saw me sitting in the chair, pale, dazed, and sick, Marius and Combeferre stopped to ask if I was alright and if I was feeling any better, but Enjolras continued to pass by hardly acknowledging me, at all.

"A—B—C!" he cried only a short time later, and we went to gather around the table where he was standing. I got up, putting down the bucket and picking up a bottle. As soon as I reached the table, I immediately sat down in a chair, still feeling lightheaded and dizzy. Enjolras did not even glance at me, but instantly turned his attention to the other boys. "It is time," he said. "Everything is in place. We are ready. The people are in the streets. All we need now is to take action!"

The other boys nodded their agreement, and began to talk quietly amongst themselves. Enjolras returned an enthusiastic nod, before he looked down at his map of Paris, and studied it for a long moment. All was certainty. All was enthusiasm. It seemed that these boys had no doubt, at all.

"Don't go," I said.

Enjolras hardly acknowledged me. He continued to stare down at his map for several moments before he rolled it up, tucked it into his satchel, fastened the satchel shut, said something quietly to Combeferre, and at last, turned to look in my direction. He was not smiling. His face was stern, hard, and cold, much like the stone of a monument in a graveyard. His eyes were dark, feeling-less, disapproving… definitely not loving. Of course, not. He did not love me. He loved France.

"Let me alone, Grantaire," he said brusquely. "I serve the people." A moment later he added, "And put that bottle down."

I let out a frustrated sigh and slammed my drink down onto the table. "There! See? Now, I put it down! Now, will you listen to me?!"

Everybody in the room jumped and turned to look at me over their shoulders, startled by this sudden outburst. Only Enjolras did not flinch. He continued to gaze at me with unchanging eyes. He frowned at me. "I'm listening."

I drew in a deep breath, and slowly let it out. Now, at last, I had his attention. But what was I going to say? What did it matter; I would improvise… "Don't go," I said again. "Don't do this. You will not accomplish anything. All you will do is get yourself and all of your friends killed."

Enjolras scolded in anger and turned abruptly away from me. "I serve the people, Grantaire," he said again. "Not myself." These last two words hit me like a blade in the heart. Perhaps, they were not even aimed at me, but to me this was Enjolras's way of saying, _"I am not selfish like you. I do not serve only myself. I do not use people. I do not betray my true love." _Enjolras had not betrayed me. He had told me from the beginning that he did not love me, that he loved France, that he would not betray France, and that after one night, we could not be together anymore. A man could only serve on master. He chose to serve Freedom over Love.

I snorted in disgust, raised my bottle to my lips again, and muttered, "You can't serve France if you're dead."

Enjolras, his back now turned to me, glared coldly at me over his shoulder. "We will not die if we have faith. Besides that, today is only a rally. Nothing too dangerous will happen now. Not yet."

I sighed, turned away from him, and slumped hopelessly down into a chair. This was Enjolras. This was the way that things had been between us ever since that blissful night of April sixth. The night that he had loved me. Like he had told me from the beginning, after the night was over, he returned to his duty as the leader of the Friends of the ABC, he planed for the rebellion, he rallied the people, he served France, and he fought for freedom. He did not let anything get in his way. Love was a barrier to his success, so he brushed it aside and forgot about it. A man cannot serve to masters. Enjolras chose France.

He hardly treated me any differently than he had before that night. He was no longer so cruel, so harsh, or so brutal to me, but he did not hesitate to correct me when he saw me drinking, or gambling, or doing things that he thought improper. He was not mean to me, but he was not kind to me. In fact, he hardly spoke to me, at all. It did not take me long to figure out that he was avoiding me, or that my presence made him very uncomfortable, and he struggled to look into my eyes. He avoided me, because he was ashamed for what he had done. He had sinned, and not it had come back to haunt him. His own conscience tormented him and weighed him down with guilt. He was ashamed for himself. And it was because of me. A few times, I had attempted to talk to him, but he had only brushed me away. He did not want me anymore. He did not love me anymore. He had never loved me. No, that was not true. He loved me. But he loved France more.

Enjolras gave the final order, and all of the boys made final preparations. Then they began to head for the door, heading for the streets, heading for freedom. I rose to my feet, as well, and began to travel out of the room with the rest of the Friends. Just before he was about to exit the room, I caught Enjolras by his arm, and pulled him into the corner. "Enjolras," I said quietly.

He frowned as he looked down at me in annoyance. No, he was not really looking at me. He looked in my direction, but he would not look into my eyes. His body was tense, and his muscles were stiff. He shifted uneasily whenever I moved or stepped closer to him. He was even more uncomfortable around me now than he had ever been. He would not even look at me. He was ashamed, and embarrassed, and angry. And it was my fault. "What do you want, Grantaire?"

"Enjolras, look at me!" I said, a hint of anger in my voice.

He hesitated a moment before he shifted his eyes to look into mine. He looked angry. Furious. I was sure that he was both of these things, but his anger was also to cover up his fear.

I stared at him for a moment, unsure what to say, feeling terrible, because I knew that all of this was my fault. "Just forget about it, alright!?" I finally cried out, and we both knew what I was talking about. "Just let it go!"

"Keep your voice down!" Enjolras hissed at me, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that there was no one listening.

"Enjolras, look at me," I said again, and he obeyed. He turned to glare at me. Then, lowering my voice, I went on, "It doesn't matter, Enjolras. It's over. It's in the past. No harm has been done. Just forget about it. It never happened."

Enjolras frowned at me for a long moment before, he opened his lips, and said softly, "It happened, Grantaire. Nothing we say or forget will change that."

I let out an irritated sigh and rolled my eyes. "What does it matter!? No body knows about it. No body will find out."

"I know and you know," Enjolras said softly. His voice was firm and cold, much the way that he had always spoken to me. "And God knows."

I sighed and slowly shook my head, dropping my eyes to stare at the ground. "It's alright, Enjolras. Just forget it."

"Leave me alone, Grantaire," Enjolras said. His voice was not angry, but it was bitter, grave, hard. "It is over."

When he said these words, "It is over," I felt a chill fall over my flesh. I had said these same words myself only moments before, but I had meant them to repair my relationship with Enjolras. When Enjolras said them, it was to break us even farther apart. It is over. I do not love you. Leave me alone. Go away. It is over.

Before I had time to protest any farther, Enjolras his back on me, and he were gone.

It was not until several weeks later that I really got to talk to him again. It was two months after the night that I spent with Enjolras. The date was June fifth, 1832. General Lamarque had died, and all of the people were gathering in the streets for his funeral. Enjolras was amongst these people, as were the rest of the boys. General Lamarque's death had sparked a flash of grief, of anger, of passion, of defiance, and of revolution. Enjolras was sure that today would be the day of the rebellion. He knew that the people would rise, the guns would sound, and war would break out over the streets of Paris.

I had not gone into Paris with the intention of attending the good man's funeral. Good as he might have been he was dead, and he could be little help to the people now. Nonetheless, I hurried through the streets, pushing people as I struggled through the crowd, and I looked through the sea of faces around me. I was looking for Enjolras.

Lamarque's funeral wagon was slowly rolling past the street before me, and I stopped to watch it pass, but my mind was still set on finding Enjolras. When the wagon and a parade had gone by, I found him. He was standing on the opposite side of the street not far ahead of me. He stood still and soldierly, like a king, gazing upon this scene with reverent awe, as the casket of the dead man, the "People's Man," Enjolras had called him, went past.

I did not hesitate. I pushed through the crowed, keeping my eyes fixed on Enjolras, and hurried to get to him. He was just preparing to act, preparing to jump into the streets and wave the red flag, and raise the signal to the people that it was time to rebel. But before he could act, I got to him and firmly took him by the arm. "Enjolras…"

He turned his head abruptly, surprised, confused, and angered. When he saw it was me, his face changed, with discomfort and with shame, but also with something that I could not tell to be an increase or a decrease of anger. "Grantaire? What is it?" he said curtly, already believing that anything that I had to say would be far less important that the change that he was about to make happen. "What do you want?"

I stared at him a moment, unsure how to respond. I wondered if I looked as scared as I felt. I was terrified. There was a knot in my gut and in my throat, and there was a cold stone where my heart should have been. I tried to keep my body from shaking and my voice from trembling, when I opened my lips and managed to say, "I need to talk to you." My voice was so soft that I could barley hear myself.

"What is it?" he asked impatiently. "What do you want?"

I swallowed the knot in my throat, tried to clear it, and I attempted to go on. "It's very important…"

"What, Grantaire? Quickly! I am busy! This is important!"

I opened my mouth to tell him, but I did not know how to tell him. I was too afraid to tell him. But I knew that time was running out. I would have to tell him, and now was my only chance. I forced back the fear that paralyzed me, and I forced myself to tell him the truth. I told him. "I am with child. And the child is yours."


	5. Love Is Capable of Being Terrible

Chapter 5: Love Is Capable of Being Terrible

"This is terrible! Absolutely terrible! I cannot believe this!"

Enjolras stormed back and froth, pacing around the upper room of the CaféMusain. The door was shut tightly, and only he and I were in the room. I was sitting stiffly in my usual chair behind my usual table, watching Enjolras was wide, terrified, and tear-filled eyes. I had seen him angry countless times in the past, but this was beyond anything that I could have imagined. He was furious. His eyes blazed with wrath like that of the gods, his nostrils flared, his beautiful face was hideous in his rage. He shouted, he cursed, he kicked at anything in his way, he over turned chairs, and he swiped a glass bottle off of a table so that it hit the ground and shattered on the floor. I had never seen Enjolras like this. This charming young man was, indeed, capable of being terrible. He was furious, treacherous, dangerous, horrifying. For the first time in my life, I was actually afraid of Enjolras. I was afraid of the man that I loved. He was so angry, so furious, so wrathful, so hateful…

Enjolras was all the more terrible, because he was also afraid, and anger was how he hid his fear.

"Grantaire, are you sure!?" he asked, suddenly turning to look at me with those furious blazing eyes.

"Yes, I'm sure," I said miserably and fearfully, recoiling slightly, as tears ran slowly down my cheeks.

"You told me that you could not become pregnant!" he thundered, in a voice as powerful, as terrible, and as wrathful as thunder. He said this as if I had intentionally deceived him, intentionally tricked him, as if I were the hunter who had set a trap for him to fall into.

"I did not know!" I told him in despair, I begged him to believe me, my voice weak, desperate, strained, and afraid. "I would not have told you that if… if I knew…"

Enjolras, still as furious as before, turned abruptly away from me, stormed a few steps across the room, madly gripped the edge of a table in his hands, and forcefully overturned it with his hands. Everything that had been on the table—several empty mugs, a glass bottle, a lit candle—was thrown off and shattered loudly on the floor. I jumped and flinched in fear, as if I was expecting Enjolras to hit me next. But he did not. Instead, he continued to storm across the room, hateful and furious, and with no idea of what he was to do, knocking things over, cursing himself, and constantly muttering under his breath this ceaseless angry soliloquy: "This is terrible! How could I have been so stupid!? This is all my fault! How foolish I was! So stupid! So selfish! Why was I so stupid!? I should never have listened to her! This is all my fault! What was I thinking!?"

Enjolras was furious. But not at me. He was furious at himself.

I could not bear this. I could not bear even to look at Enjolras any longer. He blamed himself, but this was _my _fault, not his. I had done this to myself and to him. To both of us. I dropped my eyes to look at the floor, unable even to look at the back of Enjolras's red coat. Tears spilt out of my eyes and rolled slowly down my cheeks, as I struggled but managed to whisper, "Enjolras, I… I'm sorry…"

In response I heard only a dreadful shattering sound, as Enjolras broke something else.

All of this was terrible. I was pregnant with Enjolras's child. How could this be true!? Out of all of the men that I had ever been with, _why Enjolras!?_ Enjolras was so good, so righteous, so innocent, so pure, and I had corrupted him. Now we could no longer pretend otherwise, now everyone would know, now we could not hide the fault.

This one question kept retuning to my mind: _Why Enjolras? _ I thought it impossible. Even Joly thought it impossible. I had been with too many men in my life, and never had I conceived a child. How, then, by some terrible chance of fate, was it Enjolras's child that I carried?

If this child inside of me could have belonged to any man beside Enjolras, how much easier things would have been! Any other man would have shrugged his shoulders at me, turned his back on me, and left me, forgetting me and forgetting his child. But not Enjolras. Enjolras was too good for that. He would not leave. He would not leave me, but neither would he comfort me, feel any sympathy for me, or love me. He would stay with me to be furious, angry, hateful, guilty, ashamed, and disgraced. I had disgraced him, and he had disgraced himself. He would never forgive himself. He would never forgive me. He would never stop hating me.

The worst part of it was that all of this misery, shame, disgrace, and hatred had been traded for a few minutes of pleasure. No, that was not why, I told myself. Had it been any other man, the affair would have been for no more than pleasure, but not Enjolras. I was not trying to use him. I really loved him.

That night when I stole Enjolras's purity, he had been terrified. As we clung to each other, as I held him close to me and he clutched tightly to me, as our bodies were pressed together, I could feel his body trembling, I could hear his breath shaking, and I could feel his heart beating, as his chest was pressed against my own. He had not lasted long. Only a few minutes. But I did not care. After that, I took him into my arms, pulled him down onto the bed so that he laid on his back, and then I curled up beside him, rested my head on his chest, and fell asleep. As I lay beside him, listening to his heartbeat, I was happier than I had ever been in my entire life. I would have given anything to make that moment last forever.

No, I was not trying to use Enjolras. Or to hurt him. I loved him. But love is capable of being terrible.

None of that mattered now, anyway. Despite what might have happened, this is what had happened. I was pregnant with Enjolras's child. …What was going to happen next? I tried to think of an answer, but I did not know. "Enjolras…" I whispered, reluctantly raising my eyes to look at his back. Without a word and with only a harsh, scornful, disgraceful look, he turned to me and looked down at me. Then, I forced myself to ask, "What are we going to do?"

For the first time, Enjolras's face softened and instead of such extreme anger, it showed sadness and despair. He let out a painful sigh, dropped his eyes to the floor, shook his head, and turned away from me. He said quietly, "I do not know."

Then he did not say anything, or look at me, or even more for a very long time. He stood stiffly in the room, gazing silently out the window, and he watched the light fade as night fell over the city. The revolution was supposed to happen today. At Lamarque's funeral, it was supposed to begin. All of the boys were ready. They were ready to follow Enjolras. But Enjolras had not been there. He left the funeral, because of me. So now, night was falling and no uprising had begun. Now, Paris was dark. Still, Paris was silent.

I let out a heavy sigh, wiped the tears off of my cheeks, and reached for a bottle. Whenever I was in misery, or distress, or sorrow, I always turned to alcohol. It was the only relief from the pain. Just as I was raising it to my lips and about to take a sip, Enjolras's loud, scolding, voice shouted out at me, "Grantaire, put the damn bottle down!"

Enjolras had been looking silently out the window for so long, and I he seemed to have forgotten that I was even in the room. Yet, as soon as I reached for the bottle, he was scolding at me, and glaring at me, and shouting at me. I jumped, surprised, and startled, and afraid by his sudden outburst, and if only out of reflex, I pulled the drink away from my mouth. Then I looked up at Enjolras with a terrified face as he screamed, "Do you want to murder our child!?"

I stared at him, too shocked, and too confused, and too unprepared to understand. It was hard enough to understand because, for the first time, Enjolras had referred the baby as "Our child." This alone came as a shock too great to comprehend. Then, he had called me a murderer. "No…" I finally said in utter confusion and fear.

"That is what you will do!" Enjolras went on in scornful anger. "You cannot drink anymore, Grantaire! If you keep drinking, then you will drown my child in your alcohol. You will kill our baby, because you are too selfish to stop drinking! Put the bottle down, Grantaire!"

At once, I obeyed. I fearfully dropped the bottle and pushed it away from me, as if I had suddenly realized it to be poison. Then, when I looked up at Enjolras, although still very confused, there were tears in my eyes.

Very slightly, so slightly that one could hardly notice, Enjolras's face softened. He opened his lips to say something, perhaps even to say something gentle, but before he could say anything, there was a loud banging sound, and the door opened. "Enjolras!" somebody cried. Enjolras and I both jumped with start and turned suddenly to see who was entering the room. It was Combeferre. I let out a sift sound of relief.

Enjolras's face suddenly became hard, cold, and firm, like a stone statue or like a soldier prepared to march into battle. By looking at his face, one could not have told that anything was wrong. Except that under those blazing blue eyes, he was trying to hide great anger. "What, Combeferre?" he asked indifferently.

"Where were you?" Combeferre cried. "The people were ready! We were waiting for your signal, but you were not there... The people did not rise, no one resisted, no rebellion began!"

When he said this, I could see the fury on Enjolras's face. Above all of them, Enjolras had wanted to fight for freedom today. But because of me, he was not able to. "Trouble arose, and I had to address it. I am sorry, Combeferre. We will have to wait."

"Wait!?" Combeferre cried. "Wait for what!?"

"For the next chance that we are given."

"What trouble arose, Enjolras?"

Enjolras crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. "Nothing that you need to worry about, Combeferre. It is my concern."

Combeferre moved his eyes past Enjolras, and for the first time, it seemed, he saw me sitting at the table. He saw the tears in my eyes, the red stains upon my cheeks, the sadness upon my face, and at once, his face changed. He turned abruptly back to Enjolras, his face hard and disappointed. Of course, he had assumed that Enjolras had been yelling at me, scolding me, and slandering me, as he_ always_ did. He expressed all of this in a single word: "Enjolras…"

Enjolras frowned at me. "This is not your concern, Combeferre," he said again. "Let us alone."

"What happened?" Combeferre questioned him, as if he had not even heard Enjolras's prior demand.

"Nothing," Enjolras repeated, anger rising within his voice. "Get out, Combeferre!"

Combeferre, as if he did not believe a word that Enjolras spoke, turned to me and asked in a gentle voice, "Grantaire, what has happened?"

I quickly blinked the tears out of my eyes and tried to compose myself, tried to act as if nothing was wrong. I shook my head and shrugged. "Nothing."

Perhaps, I was a better liar than Enjolras, but Combeferre did not seem to believe me any more than he believed Enjolras. He frowned and turned back to Enjolras to look at him with a disapproving face. "Enjolras," he said in a low voice. "You have to stop doing this."

Enjolras was suddenly furious, because he had been furious all along but had been hiding it, and now he could not hide it anymore. "Enough, Combeferre!" he roared. "This is not your concern! Do not mettle in other people's affairs! Leave us alone!"

"Enjolras—" Combeferre began to protest, but before he could speak, I interrupted him, "Everything is alright, Combeferre. Really. Enjolras was not doing anything to me. But really, you should go. We are in the midst of a conversation here."

Combeferre looked sadly at me for a moment and then at Enjolras, confused, disappointed, and unhappy. Then he let out a heavy sigh and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Neither Enjolras nor I spoke for a long time, as we watched Combeferre leave, and then stared at the closed door. At last, I sighed and said, "You know that we can't hide this forever. It's only a matter of time before all of Paris knows the truth." Enjolras did not answer, so I turned my head to look at him. He was still staring at the door, his face like stone, but I could see that he was thinking. "At least…" I went on quietly, keeping my voice indifferent as if I did not care, "they will know part of it. They will not know that you had anything to do with it, unless you tell them."

Unless_ you_ tell them. This was my way of telling Enjolras that I was not going to tell anyone; that unless he chose to tell people, nobody would know; and that if he chose it, everyone would still believe him to be the innocent, pure, righteous, and flawless boy that he had always been. No one would know the truth. I could not bring this burden upon Enjolras. It was not his fault. Enjolras was not to blame for any of this. He blamed himself, but only I was to blame. Enjolras was innocent, and virtuous, and good. I had deceived him, caught him, and brought this storm upon him. But, unless he chose to tell them, nobody would know.

Enjolras thought for another long moment, not sparing a glance at me. He remained stiffly where he stood, like a statue of marble, standing straight like a soldier, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed upon the door. Then, without a word or even a look in my direction, he walked across the room, went to the door, and was gone.


End file.
